


You Get Me Closer To Gotham

by ASignificantWhisper



Category: Gotham (TV), Shameless (US)
Genre: Anal Fingering, Anal Sex, Bipolar Disorder, Bondage, Dirty Talk, Hand Jobs, M/M, Masturbation, Oral Sex, Rough Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-11-22
Updated: 2015-12-15
Packaged: 2018-05-02 20:57:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 2
Words: 9,314
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5263364
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ASignificantWhisper/pseuds/ASignificantWhisper
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Ian Gallagher dresses up as Jerome Valeska for his fanboy boyfriend, Mickey Milkovich.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> This is the companion piece to 'Fucking Carrot Tops'. Obviously, Mickey is a fanboy. Who wouldn't be? I've edited this down to the T, but it's late, I'm tired, I've had to post this several times due to website errors, so I can't promise there won't be mistakes I overlooked. Anyways, enjoy. Lemme know what you think?

Another shirt? What the hell? Ian loves this one on him. Wait, was that his favorite pair of boots? Why wasn't Mickey wearing them? Pair of socks now. Boxers. More boxers. Jesus, how much plaid underwear does Mickey Milkovich own? Must be more than Ian's aware of.

Ian makes a mental note to ask Mickey when he found the time to get all this, right in time for Mickey to come stomping into the living room and launch an empty Marlboro pack across the area. Ian watches it land on the hardwood, no doubt bouncing under the edge of the couch. He raises a curious brow, moving over to try and cool down his fuming boyfriend.

When Ian finally reaches his delicious destination, he arches a long arm out, tapping his fingertips in a rhythmic dance all the way up Mickey's arm, to the inside of his elbow, then back down again. Ian's rewarded with a path of goosebumps protruding from the skin, which has him leaning forward to press his mouth against Mickey's wrist, his teeth scraping the pulse point. Mhm. Mickey was indeed a good test subject towards Ian's ongoing EMT skills. Whether it be finding a pulse correctly, or administering CPR, Mickey was a willing participant. Ian likes to think it's also because he lets Mickey wear his new navy windbreaker jacket with the word "Gallagher" in white writing on the front. Mickey was ever the sucker for Ian in uniform.

He holds onto the thing more than Ian does half the time.

At Ian's affectionate treatment of him, Mickey considerably eases up on his hostile attitude, jabbing a finger against the side of Ian's jaw. "The fuck you actin' like a vampire again for? I told you that feels weird."

"Doesn't to me. And I don't see you jerking away from my mouth, hmm. It's your favorite, no matter what weird things it does--"

 

"Don't forget to add in all the shit that comes outta it half the time." Mickey snorts rather loudly, causing Ian to defend his features with a sharp red brow raise.

 

"You mean like leftover drops of semen?" Ian is cocky now, replacing that defensive eyebrow mechanism with that smirk that made Mickey want to both- punch Ian the fuck in those washboard abs, or take him in his mouth until he's about ready to nut, letting him go on purpose to teach the smug ginger.

 

Mickey remains briefly stoic, but decides with a moments pause to play along. "And here I thought you could swallow all of me, man. You can't handle me or somethin', Gallagher?"

 

The answer briefly catches Ian off guard, Mickey giving himself a mental high five. He could be seductive as fuck when he wants to be too. Although, like Ian usually does, he maneuvers himself towards Mickey, seemingly trying to keep himself un-phased. The poker face was near perfected. The fucker. Mickey lets out a soft sigh when Ian leans in to rest his head between Mickey's shoulder blade and neck, addicted to that freshly shaven cheek and jaw line. Ian hums, blowing hot air through those perfect lips behind Mickey's ear, causing Mickey to feel it from the side of his neck, down his throat, stopping to add pressure into his nipple, finally settling in his cock. The fuckhead just knew exactly which light moves got Mickey feeling that type of way.

 

"Gallagher, quit it," Mickey tries to command, only that's not how it comes out.

 

"Your body language is screamin' at me, Mick. I know you hate when I ignore you, so..."

 

That's when Mickey becomes frustrated now, a little cranky. He has to go to work and Ian knows they don't have time before his literal five minutes to speed there, are up. They'd done the whole 'excuse me, new boss dude, but I was late to work because of a flat tire.' but I was really fucking my boyfriend against the front door-type thing. And Mickey needs this job. So he shoves Ian off a little rougher than intended, causing the younger male to give an exasperated sigh. "Mickey, come the fuck on. Please?"

 

"You not understand schedules, red?" Mickey snaps, watching Ian's eyes soften at the use of one of Mickey's nicknames for him, despite the harshness in his tone. He gets it. But he's not happy about it. Not with Mickey looking that good in a button down and jeans. Smelling like a Gucci ad or some shit like that. He only wanted a taste.

Mickey, already feeling himself grow irritated again at knowing he just helped blue ball himself, the headache of his oncoming all day work shift on his mind, the mess he made trying find something to wear like a girl would do in a hissy fit, it causes him to yank on his leather biker jacket that Ian had bought for him a few weeks back. He practically stomps to the fridge, taking out his lunch bag, sidestepping Ian's attempt for their usual goodbye kiss, and he's out the door, muttering how he hopes Ian's balls hurt as much as his do.

Ian gives a roll of his now tense shoulders, easing a parted, winded breath from his lips. He shouldn't have teased Mickey. Mickey was trying to work hard, help keep the bills paid up. Ian could be a little shit sometimes. Not to mention a self-sabotage at that, he notes, looking down at the slightly raised bulge in his pajama pants. Ian considers the option of attacking himself right here with a little spit in his palm, but he wasn't feeling it with Mickey pissed at him. Cranky Mickey could sometimes be cute, angry Mickey was sometimes hot as hell, but a pissed to stressed Mickey was Ian's backing off cue. Most of the time.

After his morning dosage is down, his plate of pop tarts and coffee nothing but crumbs and an empty mug, Ian directs his attention to the pile of clothing scattered down the hallway, right into his and Mick's bedroom. Might as well. It was amazing how many clothes he realizes were actually in his partner's wardrobe. A lot of them Ian vaguely remembers during the first year he and Mickey met. It doesn't take Ian that long before he's got them all hung and put away, some he basketball slams into the laundry basket, plopping down on the edge of their bed to peel back a pair of dark sweats from the laptop they shared.

There. The last of it. Ian notices the light flashing on the laptop, signaling it was still on. Might as well conserve power by turning it off, or find a movie to watch on it. Plopping back against his own stack of pillows, Ian crosses a sock clad foot over the other, the screensaver on the laptop causing him to snort when it appears. Keep Calm and Fuck Off. "Nice, Mick."

 

Clicking his way into their downloads folder to see which movies were available at convenience, Ian can't help but to smirk at the familiar files Mickey labeled as 'Stay the Fuck OUT'! Ian, already, pretty much knew what those were. Mickey wasn't dumb enough to think Ian couldn't see this, or look at this. He respected Mickey's privacy, but his curiosity got the better of him before, wanting to see if his boyfriend had porn saved. Mickey didn't even care when Ian had told him what he had found. And Ian couldn't fault his boyfriend, because it wasn't exactly porn, and Ian himself had a similar thing for a celebrity.

 

They had pretty much fucked with each other over their mutual fanboying. Ian finds his amusement mounting itself into insane levels, and he's tapping the laptop mouse to bring the folder up. With a roll of his eyes, Ian scrolls down the newest additions to the folder that contained nothing but pictures of the actor Cameron Monaghan. He knew why Mickey loved the guy. He just wonders if Mickey knew he knew that Mick followed the guy on Instagram too. Ian's reasoning for his crush were pretty much for the same reasons as Mickey's. Mickey even knew Ian has his own folder with pictures of the actor Noel Fisher.

 

Then there was that TV show said actors were paired on. It reminded Ian and Mickey about their lives, their relationship. But Ian and Mickey opted to stop watching it. Season 6 didn't look promising without Noel, Ian argued. And eventually Mickey agreed, voting to only watch Cam's scenes when they were uploaded later on. What catches Ian's eye though, is the video downloads. Surely Mickey wasn't downloading porn porn on here? With heavily mixed emotions, Ian brings up the first file labeled 1x16. The next four files labeled with numbers alike, except the last one, which read 'some bullshit right here'. When the screen comes to life it has Ian throwing a palm down his forehead, letting out a chortle. Of fucking course.

 

His partner had downloaded each episode of Gotham that Cam had been in as Jerome Valeska, the joker. Ian had to admit that the guy was fucking impressive. Exiting that file, Ian clicks on the profanity labeled one, memories of a month back catching him. Mickey lost his shit when Jerome was "killed" off. The biggest fanboy in the Southside couldn't be consoled. Even with Ian riding his boyfriend into the headboard that night, Mickey was still going on about it during. It was cute, but frustrating. Life of a fanboy, Ian is all too aware.

 

When Ian clicks out of the file, the history brings up the date the file was opened, causing Ian's jaw to drop. In the time Mickey was taking in the bedroom this morning before his tempter tantrum, he had been watching Gotham. "Really, Mickey? Really? Can't be late for work, can't give me five minutes to get us off, but you've got time for this shit?" Ian speaks aloud, staring at a picture he had absentmindedly clicked on in his hasty retreat of the downloads folder.

 

Ian sits there, stewing. Seething. But then he remembers how stressed Mickey has been lately over the new job, then his thoughts replay how stress had been a permanent part of Mickey's life. It goes from that to Ian remembering what Mickey went through with him, for him. Then he berates himself for getting mad that Mickey would indulge himself when he rarely did. Ian is staring at the picture of the character Jerome in a red, silk robe, plaid underneath. And a rogue piece of red hair draping down into a curl across his forehead. And so Ian brings up the first episode, hitting the play button.

 

It took Ian well into what would be Mickey's afternoon lunch break before he's finishing the last episode that Cam was in. He had seen them before, but a refresher course without Mickey's commentary was a lot clearer to process. Ian wipes his computer screen blurred eyes, checks his phone he had left on the nightstand, noticing Mickey wasn't gonna call him like he usually did to check up. His lunch break already close to ending. Ian directs his gaze to that picture tab still open.

And that's when the warmth spreads across his chest, the idea circulating like a wild fire that started in his toes, spreading up his body, agreeing with his cock, to its final stop. Ian feels his arms align with goosebumps at the idea churning. He runs his fingers up through his hair, a smirk dangling off his lips before he closes the laptop and pads on bare feet to the bathroom. Holding onto the sink with one hand, Ian lifts a finger up to his red hair, tugging at a few strands in the front until he's got one stray piece that flops onto his forehead. Clearing his throat, his brain rapidly pulling apart each episode with careful consideration, Ian manages to dip his voice into a rather hissing rasp. Satisfied, Ian rears back, attempting a snarl. "I'll see what I can do for you, Mickey Milkovich."

 

~*~  
It's about six o'clock in the evening, Mickey pissed at the exhaustion he wanted to feel, but didn't. Wired from work he was, still kinda mad at Ian. He admitted it was immature not to kiss or call the guy, but whatever. Fishing his keys out of his coat pocket, Mickey is starting up the sidewalk, pausing when he sees a large portion of the sidewalk covered in big red letters of his name. Spray painted right on. "What the fuck? What the fuck?!!!!" And Mickey pales a little, worrying something might be wrong inside.

 

His instincts have him unlocking the door and slamming it behind him, hollering out into the dimly sunset lit room. "IAN?"

 

"And the angry wolf returns home in time to be fed." Mickey hears a low, menacing voice from his left, causing a series of erratic heartbeats to patter across his chest. The voice, he knew it. It was Ian, right? Mickey casts his look to the left in time for the figure to be revealed. On the posts they had built in for the kitchen island they added to this slowly, but surely rejuvenated shithole, Ian stood atop it.

He was leaning against the white post that hooked into the build in, body decked out in an outfit that causes Mickey's anxiety to evaporate and recalculate his blood flow. Ian wore a plaid, blue striped pajama top, dark black jeans, and a very familiar looking long ass robe. Silk. If that wasn't enough to get Mickey entirely to drop his keys, that lone red curl that clung over his lover's forehead did it. The keys loosen from Mickey's fingers until they're one with the hardwood. Ian drops from his spot, feet hitting the floor with a commanding thud. He doesn't walk the same to Mickey in his greeting.

 

He moves slowly, as if he could slither across the floor. He circles Mickey like he was prey tonight, his tongue flicking across his pearly white teeth, those lips inviting. Mickey was an inch closer to loosing it the more Ian closed in on him. He tries to get in front of the man, but is spun, hands pinned behind his back in a semi painful vice. "Ian, I'm sorry I didn't call, man. I'm just.. What is this shit? The front fuckin' walk is messed up."

 

Mickey can feel it before he hears it. The vibrations in Ian's short, seemingly offended gasp of surprise. His voice is dangerously close to Mickey's ear, the warmth filtering out to calm the cold air off his lobe. "You mean you don't approve, Mick? Hmm? Disappointing. Didn't you do that to someone once? They were to be a.. a dead man." Ian, this time, leans down and bites the edge of Mickey's ear, permitting his tongue to filter out and lick the shell.

 

"I.. Ian, what the fuck is this? I know you're mad, aren't you? Pissed I left without your flowers and candy shit.." Mickey wasn't sure that made sense at all, not with the layers of clothing on him that felt wrong, when Ian was behind him, so fucking right.

 

Ian sighs, and Mickey finds himself spun around, Ian lowering his head until that curl sways out by Ian's breath when he talks, sliding along Mickey's forehead, brushing his nose. "Mickey, why so serious?"

 

"Jesus fuck," Mickey stammers, getting it now, getting the gist of it all. His pants coiling tightly around his crotch, his body melting into a puddle of adrenaline filled relaxation. He reaches up to touch that curl, to play, but Ian slaps the fingers away and swivels Mickey back around, ripping his coat off his back. Mickey was practically panting, unsure if it was dark out now, light still. What day was it? Fuck. What reality had he stepped into? If this was what he gets when Gallagher is pissed off, then by all fucking means. Fuck.

 

"What do you say, Mickey?" Ian exhales his breath onto Mickey's neck seconds before he sinks his teeth into the skin, biting it hard enough to bruise. Mickey feels that in his goddamn toes. He can't answer right now. His stomach is dealing with the waged war of butterflies slapping around. "You be the good guy and I'll be," Ian drawls the sentence out, his tone curling around it until Mickey feels it burn into his brain on replay. "and I'll be the bad one?"

Mickey is a pitiful mess in the moment. His boyfriend was Jerome fucking Valeska right now. He wanted to hurt the fucker, so Ian would hurt him back. He wanted to not walk for a fucking week. He wanted to push Ian even more in this character exterior. So he doesn't answer. This gets him what he wants. A firm growl of an animalistic nature, Ian releasing Mickey's arms until he's got their hands entwined together. Ian's fingers lay atop Mickey's own. Together, they unbuckle Mickey's belt, Ian pulling it out from the loops, joining Mickey's hands again to help open the jeans. Not even seconds after the confines free the pressure on his cock slightly, Mickey can't help but watch Ian dip their hands down through the elastic of his boxers, scraping through the pubic hair, wrapping themselves around Mickey's erection.

 

Ian's throat catches itself around a low moan, his lips parting, eyes closing behind Mickey as he experiences him. Hot and heavy in his grip. Mickey's fingers squirming under the weight of Ian's own, trying to drag them down to his head to get more stimulation. Ian lets them, letting Mickey tease himself, Ian's fingers just going along for the ride in the moment.

 

"I can make it hurt so good. Things only I can do for you, Mick." Ian peppers kisses to the angry patch of flesh on Mickey's skin he'd marked minutes beforehand.

 

"I know, fuck, I know, " Mickey rasps out, his lips soaked in his own saliva, the aching, starved hunger inside him that could only be filled one way.

 

"I'm the boss," Ian echoes, letting Mickey sway their grasps up and down his cock in another sweep.

 

Mickey, consumed in the fire that was Ian Gallagher gone Jerome Valeska, doesn't speak at all this time. He groans, greedily milking in pleasure, trying to get Ian to stroke that vein on the underside of his dick now. Ian tuts, clicking his tongue to the roof of his mouth at lack of response in his presentation. His fingers crawl out of Mickey's boxers, those long freckled digits tap Mickey's wrist bone in slow circles in a way that has Mickey twitching in his palm. With his remaining hand, Ian shoves Mickey's out of the way and grips onto his partner's length, hard, raising Mickey up onto the balls of his feet.

 

God, was he gonna bend Mickey over and finally give it to him now? Mickey wanted to cry out. And he does when Ian's fingers grip the hair at the nape of his neck, tilting his head back. Ian lifts his thumb under Mickey's chin, pushing his head until they're practically mouth to sweet fucking mouth. Ian has Mickey near that groveling stage when he says it, it reaching his green eyes, his pupils blown so wide Mickey wanted to get lost in the darkness with Ian.

 

"Who's the boss?" Mickey's cock gets another toe tipping wrap around, causing him to all but shout the words.

"You are, Ian. You are."

Ian squeezes him again. "What, WHAT? I said you are, Ian! FUCK!"

"Your boyfriend's not here, gorgeous, " Ian cooes, licking that spot behind Mickey's ear, halting when he finds that particular zone, his tongue flicking back and forth over it. Mickey finds himself hollering the words into the living room, pretty sure they might hear next door.

"You're the boss. You are, Jerome."

His partner seems pleased with this answer now, but he takes Mickey's hand from his cock, Mickey whining like a brat at the action. He's not prepared the moment he's face to face with Ian again, eyeing him from head to toe, his hard on painfully present. Mickey bites his lip so hard he felt as if the skin gave way, coating the tip of his tongue with copper. He can't see if Ian's hard too, the robe in the way, but he can sense it. He just wants to. Just. Come on.

 

Ian steps closer. It's slow, too slow for Mickey's liking. Mickey tries to reach for Ian but he's pushed until he's hitting the edge of the couch and Ian's towering him with their small height difference. Without breaking eye contact, Ian's ripping Mickey's button down apart, the buttons pinging all directions.

 

"That was my work shi-"

 

"Why don't you keep that pretty mouth shut until I can fill it with my cock." It was a demand, a raging demand that has Mickey clamping his mouth shut, watching Ian give in a bit and touch him. Ian turns them around, his fingers on Mickey's cock and back steps them out of the living room, Mickey soaking up each stroke of Ian's fingers as he leads him by the cock, keeping the grip gentle as to not hurt Mickey in the moment. That ends, however, when they're in their bedroom, door secured behind them. Ian snaps his fingers together, ordering Mickey to shed himself of his clothing. Mickey all but complies, nearly choking on a wailing scream when his dick is free of the clothes.

 

All he wants now is Ian to fuck him. Rut against him. Jerk him. Swallow him down. He didn't give a flying fuck as long as he could do something to ease this pulsating torture. But when Mickey looks up from his spot on the bed, he evaluates the situation with a knowing groan. Ian wasn't gonna make this quick. He has... other plans.

 

Ian grits his teeth, his fingers snapping out at Mickey. "Get up and come over here, Mickey."

 

The use of his full name has Mickey biting his bottom lip in out of sheer need, complying instantly. Ian's got him before he can blink, and then they're in front of their bedroom mirror. Mickey tries to turn away, edge away. He didn't want to see himself in the mirror looking this strung out. Huffing like an animal that was trapped. His body flushed in places he forgot could turn red.

 

He knows Ian isn't agreeing with this shy act, not in this manner right now. He looks up at Ian, who lets his knuckles graze Mickey's cheek, his voice winding Mickey up again when he takes control. "Turn around and spit into your hand. Then touch your cock for me."

 

Mickey descends into a slow nod, whirling himself around, spitting into his right palm. The sight sent him into a frenzy when he levels out, back against Ian's chest. They'd never done this before. Gotten off looking into a mirror. Mickey had alone a few times. But never anything full length. Not where he could see those inked knuckles fisting around his erection, coating it with the shine of his own saliva. Fuck. It feels so good. He can barely take it.

 

"That's my good guy. Show me how you can fuck yourself. I'm right here. Let me watch you fuck yourself, Mickey," Ian pants, loosing his cool now, sending Mickey's fingers right to his head, swirling the pre-cum around in circular strokes, over and over again until he hears his breath hitching with his body beckoning itself into trembles. His eyes drink in the reflection suctioned to the glass. His eyes, Ian's eyes. Watching him thrust into his own hand. Ian moving with him. Ian's lips parting to let his tongue out to wet them. His fingers drumming against Mickey's hip bones.

 

"I'm goin' to... Ian. OR Jerome," Mickey backtracks, bouncing between the two names. "or what-the-fuck-ever you are, fuck." It's a breathless pant as Mickey starts to bow into his hand as the fire licks his muscles, pressure building rapidly. That's when the fucker does it. That's when he's got Mickey halting the pleasure, turning him around and nudging him until he was on the bed, Ian dipping it in to kneel between Mickey's legs. He lets Mickey cool a second, those eyes growing mad, then Ian trails bites up to the inside of Mickey's thigh until it begins to shake.

 

Mickey's cock strapped painfully to his stomach, demanding attention, slicked up, needing somewhere to go. He almost wants to laugh insanely. Ian's timing is astounding when he's surprising Mickey by licking up that needy vein.

 

"Fuck me, you stupid bitch!" Mickey looses it, eyes widening at the way he just spoke to his partner. Stupid bitch? Jesus Christ, this was the Twilight Zone. Or purgatory with no orgasms.

 

Ian's head snaps up, a finger wagging before dipping to stroke fondly over one of Mickey's balls. "Stupid bitch? Tsk, tsk, Mickey. Is that anyway to talk to the captain? The boss man?" Ian raises himself up, a lazy grin denting in the corner of his mouth, he doesn't break eye contact with Mickey as he gets the robe off, tossing it behind him. "You're baaaaad."

 

Mickey was sure this was how he'd go out. Loss of blood from his brain, all of it in his cock.

 

"I hate nagging, you know?" Ian winks, doing a quick drumming with both hands across Mickey's abdomen, discarding himself of his other clothing. Now Mickey can see it clear as day. Ian was as hard as he was, and he hadn't even touched himself. Mickey felt the searing quench for Ian. He wanted that cock, and he wanted it now. He couldn't take it if Ian tried long ass foreplay, or blowing him. He'd shoot his load before Ian even sucked him down to the hilt.

 

That body of Gallagher's. He could never get used to it. The way it shaped, dipped, had red hair in all the right places. Mickey wants to black out now. He couldn't take this much longer. Luckily for him, Ian couldn't either. Not even through this role. Mickey feels his insides doing back flips and trampoline jumps on his cock when he watches Ian retrieve their bottle of lube and slick up a digit. He nods before Ian can ask, and the finger is working him open, two, three joining it.

 

"You're a fucker. I love you," Mickey clings desperately with a hand to Ian's left forearm, propped on the bed as his fingers scissor Mickey open for him.

 

Mickey is ready, so fucking ready for it that he doesn't protest when Ian removes his fingers and slaps one hand to the wall above their headboard, and the other to the headboard itself, lowering himself and his cock to Mickey, whom takes it eagerly, sucking Ian down until he hit the back of his throat. He tastes Ian, and laps at the pre-cum, greedy, unwilling to cease. He wanted to give payback.

 

"That's the stuff, gorgeous. Mhm. Get me ready for you, Mickey."

 

All too soon after Ian echoes the words, he's pulling out of Mickey's mouth with a wet pop.

 

Yanking Mickey's hips up around his waist, knees pressing into the bed, weighing it down, Ian has his length coated in the lube in seconds flat, passing a nod that Mickey returns. And then they're off.

 

"Here's to the climax, folks," Ian lolls his head back as he gets caught on the words, then rolls his grasp around Mickey's neck and tugs him into his mouth the moment he thrusts himself up inside Mickey.

 

Somewhere, Mickey heard unchained melody in his head, and he went outer limits, his nails digging into Ian's back until his fingers felt moisture.

 

"Goddamn, goddamn," Mickey is whining, literal whines in relief, exhausted, sweet ass relief with Ian sheathed inside his ass.

 

The more Mickey rakes his nails across Ian's back, his biceps, his forearm, it fuels Ian with twists of his hips. His jaw goes slack, lips part, teeth clench. Ian can't take it the way Mickey responds to him, clenching around him. The perfect fit. His hands fly forward and hit the wall above the headboard, Mickey's knees drawn higher up and ankles lock around Ian's lower back. Their rhythms were growing sloppier by the second, Mickey's body giving into that oncoming fire that came for him yet again. This build up had been all the foreplay Mickey needs.

 

He could twist Ian inside out too, he could. He lets his hands release from Ian's back, his fingers sliding up Ian's arms, gripping so hard into his shoulder blades he saw half-crescent moon marks on the surface the second his hands left Ian. Mickey's hands caress Ian's neck several times, finally cupping Ian's cheeks, Ian lolling his head to the side to bite at Mickey's tattoo clad knuckles. Mickey lifts one hand to tug painfully at that strand of loose red hair, Ian feeling the sensation in his scalp, striking through his body until it reached where Mickey and he were joined. He feels himself nearly go over the edge.

 

Mickey watches Ian work harder to get them there, those broad shoulders, those muscles stretching. He looks down to see Ian pumping in and out of him, his hips flexing in violent spasms. Mickey, has to hide his face in the crook of Ian's neck because goddamn, this was too much right now. Ian lowers a hand from the wall, clutches the headboard, his other hand reaching down between them to fist Mickey's cock in time with the thrusts. He too samples a look where their bodies were joined, his eyes widening, engulfed in Mickey's wild, pupil blown plea as they watch each other.

 

Mickey builds in Ian's hand, he grips Ian's cock with a clench of his muscles until Ian feels his stomach cave into the pressure of his rising orgasm. Ian twitches inside of Mickey, and they twist together, Mickey holding on tightly to Ian's sweat soaked back, the salty perspiration stinging along the scratches Mickey had made down Ian's flesh, bumping Ian's senses. The bed hit the wall, taking the plaster that they'd just put up in here down behind it. Ian's throat tightens, he looks at Mickey right in time for the blinding hot white heat to scorch them to the bone.

 

Mickey can't fucking talk when that climax swallows his basic motor skills, his orgasm spurting out of him and all over Ian's hand and his chest. Ian is able to let out one long 'fuck' filling Mickey with his release, Mickey eagerly taking it with a heaving breath, and Ian's collapsing on top of Mickey like the end of some guitar solo that's in danger of burning its live wires.

 

And in some, cheesy, fucking weird ass way he would never tell Ian, Mickey compares them to two fused wires, tangled together, melting together. He's so out of the zone, tuning right back in with wide eyes as he feels Ian's massively strong heartbeat against his skin.

 

After Mickey finally finds his breath, he's interrupted before he can speak, Ian's muffled question against Mickey's chest, his regular tone sliding back into place. "Can I have my kiss now?"

 

Mickey laughs, so damned happy, he runs his hands through Ian's damp hair and brings him up to join their lips together, sneaking in an extra peck. Ian eases out of Mickey and curls off against his side, cocky, pleased. Mickey was fucking spent. Too out of it to seek out his cigarettes. Ian can't even move either, but that doesn't stop his mouth.

"You were watching Gotham this morning instead of fucking me?"

"Is that why you... Fuck, Ian." His voice was practically seated in husk when he finally speaks up, remembering vocal speech.

Ian didn't have to ask, knowing Mickey approved. Whatever arguments like this they would have in the future, neither of them would complain.

"What about now, Mickey? Still gonna do that?"

Mickey eyes the discarded robe at the foot of the bed with a lazy ass smirk. "I'm not done with Jerome yet, Ian."

And they tackle each other back into the sheets, because all be damned, they did have another round left in them.


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When Mickey said he wasn't done with Jerome, well, Ian decides that he wasn't either.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I didn't expect so much positive feedback! Eeep, I adore you all who take the time to let me know here, and on Tumblr. It helps so much to know you appreciate this. I love writing it. And by demand, I bring you this chapter. I especially wanna thank my girls KT & Johna for the encouragement, and helping to feed my thirst for this, lol. A little something in this chapter for you. Well, enjoy everyone! Lemme know what you think? And... part three, perhaps?

Mickey cannot for the life of him, think of why he let Gallagher talk him into this. He was beginning to think his partner of several years has him by the heart strings-just as much as by the dick now. The green puppy eyes, the packin' cock. Yeah, Mickey Milkovich is threaded into Ian Clayton Gallagher so deep it makes him have to clear his throat to keep from throwing up in his mouth a little. Only, that notion feels wrong. He doesn't roll his eyes at the sugary sweet anymore, because fuck, he's really in love. And fuck, if he doesn't mind it.

 

It was cold, few weeks away from being Christmas, so why this place was so fucking crowded or even a thing is beyond Mickey. You'd think all the fancy asses, or not even strictly sated rich would be overcrowding the malls, the stores, looking for whatever the fuck toy was in and the most expensive. He'd has his fill of that. Gallagher and Svet wanted Yevgeny to have that one specific ninja turtle so damned much then they could get their asses cart rammed, or get the backs of their heads busted with a Barbie doll. Once was the first and only time Mickey Milkovich would attempt black Friday shopping, let alone any fucking extensive browsing.

 

Mickey shakes the horrifying thought of soccer moms and designer bags coming at him from all angles to side step a freaky ass looking clown handing out balloons. So he thinks.

 

"Hi, Mr. Isn't it a nice night for all the fun!? You look like Mr. Smiles could give you a balloon, perhaps?" The flashy, purple haired fucker invades Mickey's personal space, causing him to inch back in a snap, holding up a hand.

 

"You better hold onto your fuckin' balloons, and that nose, Mr. Grins, whatever the fuck you call yourself, before I pop that squeaker so far into your face it becomes necessary to breathe through it for real. You got that?"

 

Mickey was surprised when the clown complies instantly, not even bothering to Mr. Rogers style reprimand his manners. Turning back around Mickey tugs his coat around him, itching for a smoke that he knows he's not allowed. The place is filled with everything he expects for a Northside circus. Lotta tents, rich folk blowing their money clips to win piece of shit bears. Horny teenagers on dates with doe eyes. Kids running around wiping their runny noses on everything. Why any moron would host a circus in the near dead of winter deserves to have his balls locked in a vice.

 

Mickey ventures deeper into the midst of the organized chaos. It's loud music, screaming, games going on. It's festive enough to bring out holiday super fans. Shaking his head, Mickey picks a line that was a coffee cafe trailer, eyes rolling as a woman ducks by him, her Christmas sweater protruding antlers and bells. "Jesus, Christ. I'm really going to kill the red headed fuck face if we're here just to hold hands and kiss under the damn mistletoe. I'm literally gonna put him over my knee and beat his freckled ass," Mickey mutters to himself, fishing out a crisp ten from his freshly cashed check-tucked away in his wallet- for a small ass coffee, earning a look from the teenaged barista.

 

~*~  
About twenty minutes into his walk around, loosing his place five times near the spot where the fucking carousel kept playing Bing Crosby, Mickey finally received a brisk text from his boyfriend.

 

'Tent about 2 mins. from the carousel. Come in the front flap. Hurry up, Mick, you don't want to miss the show, now do ya?'

 

Even for Ian the tone of his message sounded odd to Mickey. Hurry? Show? What the fuck is he on about? Downing the last of the stale coffee so it doesn't go to waste, Mickey follows the directions, coming up to a large gold tent, the front flap a silken material with glints of red woven in. Mickey admits, it does stand out and catch interest. Maybe Ian did have something fun planned when he asked Mickey to meet him here after all? Mickey follows the small crowd of people under the silk flap into the lush tent.

 

He noticed the fancy dining chairs all set up, filled with people. A ribbon and garland decorated pole in the middle of the room, holding the sheer red material way above the hay filled ground, that meshed right with the looming chandelier. Fuck, festive is pretty impressive. Mickey isn't sure what to do next, not even as the stage lights turn down at the front, signaling the show starting. No chairs. What the fuck? Where is Ian? Is he expected to stand through this whole damned thing? Mickey huffs, crossing his arms and stampedes to the front, inching his way into a position nearest the stage. This is so important to the ginger, Mickey's dam well not gonna miss this. 

 

Mickey blinks at the boldly hot lights illuminating a rather attractive girl with tattoos first, another beautiful girl with dark hair and bold lips. Both dressed in this schmooze, slinky stuff. They get a few laughs with jokes, before Mickey sees them outstretch their silk gloved hands to the left side of the stage, announcing the magician. And that's when his mouth drops open, lips parched, coffee tainted throat dry. His arms drop to his sides right as his tall, red headed boyfriend springs onto the stage, arms up in the air.

Ian is dressed in dark slacks, a long tailed black coat, with a white long shirt covered by a silk button up vest. He bore the matching large black tie, and the top hat stood out proudly on his head. Mickey's dizzy, buzzing. He knew this look. Ian knew how this went. Fuck him, Mickey has to swallow the heat clawing at his throat, his pants coiling up tightly.

 

"Gooood evening, ladies and gentlemen! I am the great Jerome Valeska!"

 

Mickey looks around for anyone to feel as if they're on an acid trip. Half these people have to watch Gotham too, right? What are they thinking? Some alternate reality tear? Waiting for this magician to go crazy? But they all cat call, wolf-whistle, causing Mickey to breeze his glance back up to Ian, whom was releasing a fucking white dove. A bird? A fucking bird? How did Gallagher...? What even..? But when Mickey is raising his head back up he's seeing that snarl pressing into Ian's lips, catching him a pupil blown stare down. Mickey licks his lips in a challenge, easing back to watch his boyfriend work his magic. Literally.

 

~*~  
After Ian dazzles the crowd, saws someone in half, Mickey is ready to get him home and break the bed. He can barely stand it as Ian winds down, flipping back a simple sheer red fabric, producing a single red rose, to which he tosses directly for Mickey to catch. Mickey smells it before he can stop the affectionate action, a groan coming from his lips when he sees that Ian has left the stage. So he waits. The crowd dissipates, leaving the tent windy and empty. Mickey tries to text Ian, but gets no response.

Did Ian really have to be so fucking mute as Jerome? What is he playing at? Mickey re-reads the first text, a devilish smirk curling into his mouth. Okay, he's impressed. Seems Gallagher is outdoing himself yet again. Mickey doesn't know why Ian will go to such lengths for him.. Then again, he does. It's what they do for each other now. Everything is better than it's been since Mickey can remember. He smiles to himself, cheesing when he's pulled out of his thoughts by the scantily clad assistants. The tattooed one speaks up first.

 

"Mickey? You're coming with us."

 

"The fuck I am, Katty--"

 

"It's KT. Weren't you listening when we introduced ourselves? Fuck, man. Ah, only eyes for the ginger model, hmm?"

 

"The fuck are you even here for? Don't you have some cock to dazzle in those get ups?" Mickey raises a sharp brow, watching as KT flips him the bird.

 

"You really don't want to piss him off and keep him waiting back there for a while, Mickey," the dark haired one with bold lips speaks up.

 

Mickey feels his insides come to life. Ian wants him. He follows the women through the back into a room that connected to another semi-open tent. Both ladies shift from heel to heel, Mickey finally lighting a smoke up now that he wasn't overly crammed in with other protesting civilians. They halt to a stop, the women still right with Mickey, smirking at his annoyance, almost as if they were expecting it. Mickey drinks in their presence, interest peaked in the ones tats and the others' dark makeup. If he weren't gay, hell, he'd probably leave here with them both. They chatter back and forth, Mickey speaking up once he grows too impatient.

 

"So Curly J, Katty Tats.. You know him, or?"

 

"I'd love to see the nicknames you give him," Johna snorts, sharing a look with KT just as KT reaches out and swipes Mickey's cigarette, his hands flinging up. She just grasps Johna's hand and they take a joined bow, smirking as they vanish from the tent.

 

"Maybe I will beat his ass," Mickey growls out, but is halted by a shadow washing over the tent. He spins behind him, his teeth taking his lower lip in captive the moment he sees. There, leaning against a decorative pole, was his boyfriend. Mickey doesn't give a fuck what Ian thinks of him in the moment as he ogles him hungrily, starved for it already. The top hat had gone, leaving Ian's short hair slicked back in some spots, messy in others. The tie hung loose around his neck, shaping half the bow. The white button down had gave way by two buttons, a patch of red chest hair scooped up proudly against Ian's creamy, freckled skin. What gets Mickey more than anything is his leather jacket Ian wore over the button down, the vest. It has him clenching his grasps into tight fists.

 

"Ah, Mickey, Mickey, Mickey. How I've missed you." Mickey chokes on his saliva, his breath tumbling out as his boyfriend stalks towards him, that lone piece of hair escaping the short mane anyway. Mickey reaches up to tug on it, Ian letting him this time.

 

"Ian, you--"

 

"Mhm, no. This won't do at all, Mickey Milkovich. At all." Ian is quick to reach around and tug Mickey back by the nape of his neck, baring his throat to him, that leather rustling against the sharp movement. Ian watches Mickey's Adam's apple bob with the increase of breaths he starts having to take, his throat tightening in those defined places. Ian leans in, rolling his tongue up Mickey's jugular, tongue tipping over the pulse point. He's dangerously close the second he starts speaking again. "I said-Did. You. Miss. Me. Mickey?"

 

"You know I did, Jerome," Mickey eases the word out, it feeling so fucking right. Jerome, his Ian playing this role for him. God, he can come on the spot.

Ian takes this in a prideful stride, his hands combing down Mickey's sides, Mickey feeling his body through the coat that Ian works off until Mickey is left in his dark black long sleeved shirt.

 

"You know what I've missed the most?" Ian questions, tilting his head, Mickey shaking his.

 

"This," Ian breaks, giving Mickey's jean clad rising erection a squeeze. "your perfect cock." He circles Mickey, giving each ass cheek a definite slap. "your amazing ass." More movement until Ian reaches his stance back in front of Mickey. "Do you know how much I've wanted to see you? To get you here so I can do all these things to your sweet little asshole, your thick dick, this.. gorgeous mouth?" Ian's fingertips dance across Mickey's lips, Mickey biting at a finger until he's sucking it past his lips. Ian moans appreciatively, giving himself a squeeze through his slacks.

"You sure know how to work a man up, baby. But you're not in charge. Remember? Remember who's the boss, Mickey?"

 

"You're the boss, Jerome. You're always the god damned boss," Mickey bites back, blue eyes vanishing to the darkness of his pupils. He sucks on Ian's finger, licking at the knuckle midway.

 

Ian bares those smooth white teeth, gripping Mickey by the collar of his shirt, pulling him until they're switched around, Mickey against the pole, the faux pine cone decorations knotting his back in scrapes that reminds him where he is. He tosses his head back, that beautiful smile making Ian slip in character for a moment, in perfect awe of his boyfriend, how much he appreciates Mickey, how he wasn't ever letting him go again. He'll please Mickey everyday like this if it gets him this smile more often.

The rain makes its appearance, beating down in soft strokes on the tent, blowing in the cool Chicago air on the two men. Ian smashes himself against Mickey, grinding their clothing covered erections together, his fingers dipping to cup behind the back of Mickey's right knee, lifting his thigh into a hitch around his waist. Then they set a rhythm. A slow, thrusting rhythm that has Mickey reaching out to grip onto Ian's shoulders, looking him directly in the eyes. Ian's green gaze was simply dulled, a rim of green remaining, caving to the dark arousal of his pupils. Ian lets them rut against each other a few more times until Mickey is a heaving mess of profanities.

He unravels Mickey's leg, Mickey biting back a painful noise at how hard he was. Feeling it. Ian reaches out to stroke his fingers down Mickey's jaw. "Hmm. You know what I want now, Mick? For you to let me suck your cock. I did so well out there tonight, putting on that show for you, didn't I? And I deserve to be rewarded, don't you think so?"

 

Mickey nods, too hoarse to speak. Ian grins widely in response, his hands pushing up Mickey's shirt, taking apart to the jean button, tugging down the zipper. But then he's stopping, raising a hand to rest above Mickey's head on the pole. Mickey frowns, confused. Ian tuts that tut, sighing. "Oh, Mickey. I want you to take yourself out for me. Let me see you?"

 

Mickey felt his shyness long since evaporate with Ian lately, and he's so fucking geared up that he does as told without a smart mouth remark. He pushes his jeans and boxers to his hip bones, gripping his hard cock in his palm, holding it. Ian looks between them, inhaling rather harshly, his finger coming out to gather the pre-cum off the head, popping it into his mouth. "Mhhm. It's sweet. I like em' sweet." Mickey is startled, a flashback whipping at his memory. Ian had heard that mid Snickers pun all those years ago. Ian observes Mickey's erection with that look so unlike himself. Mickey feels the ache scrape at the bottom of his stomach, begging to be dealt with.

"I think you're perfect, but I want you to tell me what you like about your cock, Mickey. You're too hard on yourself when you're the most beautiful guy I've ever seen."

 

Mickey senses the invading blush creeping up his neck, but Ian is having none of it. His look gentle, truthful. Mickey looks down at himself, the way he was shaped, describing it to Ian. Deciding on a whim to add in. "But I like my cock best when your lips are around it, red."

 

Ian's jaw drops a little, he lets his hand level back to his side, then he's dropping to his knees rapidly. Mickey's breathing picks up, his heart hammering the blood rush up into his throat, pounding into his ears. The red head looks up at him, that spark sending them off.

 

"Tell me how bad you want it now. Come on, my good guy, you gonna fuck my mouth for me? Say it. Say you want me to," Ian rasps out, hands still at Mickey's naked hips.

 

Mickey doesn't miss a mother fucking beat, gripping his fingers around both Ian's wrists on him. "Suck me down, Valeska. Fuck, let me fuck your freckled mouth. Let me reward you for the show."

 

It's all too much, all too fucking much when Ian engulfs the head of Mickey's cock past that perfect set of lips. The hot, wet warmth welcomes Mickey home. He inches up into a thrust, eyes open as his head tilts, all too much to look down at Ian without coming just yet. The lights were an array, spinning above Mickey. The awful Christmas music hand in hand with the soft rain that picked up, the wind brushing Ian's hair up, fanning his scent into assaulting Mickey's senses. The smells of cinnamon, cotton candy. So. Fucking. Much. Mickey's winded looking down at the red head that swallows another inch of him, holding his look under those lashes. Mickey watches Ian hollow his cheeks a bit more, the freckles on his face that still remained fanning out when the muscles in Ian's jaw tense as it worked to take the rest of Mickey in. Ian's got him now, and he's pushing Mickey's hips, Mickey nodding and greedily fisting an inked knuckle grip into that red hair as he pushes his hips forward, Ian's tongue sliding along the underside of his dick with each languid thrust.

 

Mickey is carefree, tossing his head back, a rumbling starting in his chest with each looping, rugged moan that drops from his lips. He swallows that cinnamon tainted rain air, watching Ian, who grabs for one of his balls, then massages the other. Ian lets Mickey slide all the way from his throat until he's sucking on the head of Mickey's dick, his fingers free to grip the saliva soaked base, the pad of his thumb tapping up and down that vein that has Mickey bucking forward. Ian flicks his tongue back and forth, up and down, in circles over Mickey's slit until he's shaking, gripping Ian by the back of his neck. "I"m gonna come, man. You better... Fuck, swallow me, Jerome?"

 

Ian pulls off, raising up. Mickey is shell shocked, swaying forward, breathless. "The fuck... You said you wanted me to."

 

"I said I wanted you to fuck my mouth, gorgeous. I never said anything about letting you come."

 

"Ian-Jerome, you fuckin'--"

 

Ian holds up a finger jabbing it at Mickey's overly sensitive cock. "You still need to know who's the captain here? Or do I need to fuck you until you know? Huh? Go inside your tight, little ass with my cock?"

 

Mickey raises another brow, playing in too. "Maybe you need to show me, tough guy? Think you can make it hard to walk for me? Try it. I goddamn dare you, Valeska."

 

Ian slams his mouth against Mickey's, his taste on his own tongue. Mickey sucks in Ian's bottom lip, biting down until the skin shreds, copper pooling into Mickey's own mouth. He licks his lips, ready to go back, but Ian's raising his leather clad arm, a bottle of lube appearing out of seemingly nowhere. "See that trick? Lookie what we've got here." And Mickey is spun around in a dizzying array, Ian pushing him into a bend, yanking his pants down until they hit his ankles, his shirt pushed up his back. Mickey is there, suspended, hanging, waiting, panting. Fuck, he can barely breathe listening to Ian shuffle, tearing fabric. His cock practically stares up at him, crying out to be stimulated.

It's Ian pushing Mickey's cheeks open for himself that breaks Mickey from the trance. "Yeah? We good?" Ian briefly letting himself back in to ask.

 

"Please just fuckin' do it," Mickey encourages, not able to saying anything more.

 

The air is cold, causing him to tense up when he's open. He hears the bottle snap open, a steady caramel salted scent making him grin into his haze. Of course Ian has holiday flavored lube. "This should warm you up, my good guy. Are you ready for me?"

 

Mickey nods, arching his ass out to meet the finger that slowly circles his hole, pushing past the ring of muscle. He relaxes seconds after, time ticking on to where Ian is easily thrusting in three caramel scented, lube covered fingers. He's had enough, and he's more than vocal about it. Mickey's stomach bottoms out in relief when he hears Ian slicking himself up, the sight not seen, but the distinction clear enough. Mickey knew it. One of his favorite sounds. Ian lays his now bare chest over Mickey's bent back, his hard nipples etched in Mickey's flesh.

 

"Take me, Valeska. Let my body show you how grateful I am for your show. Come on," Mickey surprises them both as he's begging for it with that confidence, so demanding. In a tone Ian has never heard before. Thank you, Jerome Valeska, Ian notes, pushing himself inside Mickey's tight heat. Crazily content, dizzy into oblivion. Not those two phrases could combined how good it feels to be inside Mickey. Both men rock into one another, possessive pleasure overcoming them both. Ian wraps his hand around the back of Mickey's throat, holding him in place. Mickey pumps back into Ian, reaching back to grip Ian's left hand, holding them together at his side.

 

"So good. My good guy. All mine. Mine and Ian's," Ian coos, kissing a path down Mickey's spine. "he's right here with us, Mickey. We've both got you. Feeling how you feel inside. Don't you like that?"

 

"Fuckin' love it," Mickey answers, close to the edge already. He needs it now. At that unbearable point. And as Ian pulses inside of him he knows the same carnal necessity for release.

 

"We're gonna come now. Together," Ian spits out the last words, then goes silent, only able to moan, fucking into Mickey until Mickey saw white around the edge of his vision.

 

Mickey's cock leaked onto the ground below, reminding him of this curved path he feels as if he's running a marathon on. Almost there. Almost. Mickey's whining lowly, but the cries turn louder, choked, jagged sobs of pleading. Ian obliges with a lube soaked hand to Mickey's cock, angles his hips and Mickey's sees the lights in the room blur together as he falls forward onto his forearm, biting into it he saw teeth marks coat the flesh, when the orgasm hits him. "Ian! Jerome! Goddamit, fuck!"

Ian's there too, groaning, biting into Mickey's shoulder and then he's coming with gritted teeth, vocally calling out, fingers still entwined with Mickey's. "Mickey! Mick! Fuck!" He spills his hot release into Mickey, stilling finally.

 

It's calm now. The noises of everything outside catching up with them both. Ian eases out of Mickey and undoes the tie to clean himself and Mickey off, his cocky, but regular Ian demeanor slipping back into place. Mickey's smile into the kiss he meets Ian, has Ian completely whipped. He holds Mickey after they dress, Mickey shaking his head. "What the hell am I gonna do with you, Ian?"

 

"I was thinking taking me by the hand, then buying us a candy apple out there, Mick."


End file.
